


The Ossuary of Your Heart

by Say_that



Series: The Locked Tomb and All Its Souls [2]
Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir, The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Literal Sleeping Together, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Fingering, cw: ianthe (thats a discord joke), emotional manipulation of children, explicit and graphic depiction of death/dying, implied child abuse/neglect, implied suicide, lots and lots of jealousy, people being bad about talking about their feelings, some abandonment issues, some really sad feelings, these idiots are both touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Say_that/pseuds/Say_that
Summary: There are many accepted truths of the Ninth House.First and foremost, the Tomb is to be served until your bones turn to dust, and even then you will fill any cracks that appear in the door.Second, The Reverend Family knows best how to serve the tomb, and to question them is to question the will of God, the Undying, as he is the one who placed them in charge.Third, Gideon Nav is a thorn in the side of the Reverend Daughter and complain as they might, neither would have it any other way.or:Harrow and Gideon, through the years and the love and heartbreak, and how Harrow has always kept a piece of Gideon with her.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus & Ortus Nigenad (but like only a bit), Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Series: The Locked Tomb and All Its Souls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658383
Comments: 9
Kudos: 159





	The Ossuary of Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> what's up, this has, as the tags indicate, some explicit depictions of death/violence re: Gideon's death. If you want to skip past the scene in questions, you should be able to just page down from the section about halfway through that starts with "'For the Ninth'" it's only four paragraphs, so if you just scroll past it quickly you should be good. 
> 
> anywho, i hope you guys enjoy this, it took me longer than i would've liked cause of school, but you do what you can, ya know?
> 
> Update! made some edits because I've been rereading GtN and noticed I had a major continuity error. Fixed a major

There are many accepted truths of the Ninth House.

First and foremost, the Tomb is to be served until your bones turn to dust, and even then you will fill any cracks that appear in the door.

Second, The Reverend Family knows best how to serve the tomb, and to question them is to question the will of God, the Undying, as he is the one who placed them in charge.

Third, Gideon Nav is a thorn in the side of the Reverend Daughter and complain as they might, neither would have it any other way.

\--

Gideon falls in love with her when she’s five and Harrow refuses to let go of her thumb as they play in the nursery. Even as a toddler, Gideon is strong; there’s no doubt in her mind that she could pull away from Harrow’s hold on her without even needing to stand up on her chubby legs. But the look of joy that she sees on that pale, fat face and the way that she’s using her whole baby hand to hold onto Gideon’s thumb, like if she lets go the world will fall apart, means that even if she wanted to get rid of it, Gideon would be useless to actually do anything.

So she lets Harrow hold on for as long as she wants, and then, when Harrow gets tired of sitting up by herself, Gideon pulls her over, carefully, and sets her little back against her stomach as they listen to Sister Aisamorta read from a prayer book she hasn’t actually seen in at least three decades, knucklebones clacking away. 

They both fall asleep like that, for how long doesn’t matter. When Gideon finally wakes up, it’s because of Reverend Mother Pelleamena picking Harrow up while she talks to Sister Aisamorta. When she notices that Gideon’s awake, she doesn’t frown like normal, but makes this kind of soft grimace with her mouth, then calls for Aiglamene, who enters the room almost immediately. “Gideon is here, if you would like to take her for practice,” she says in her low, cold voice.

(It will take Gideon roughly five years to come to terms with the fact that Harrow sounds only a pitch off from her mother when she is grown. She will never mention this.)

Aiglamene nods and comes over, offering Gideon her hand. Once she’s on her feet, she expects to have to simply follow, like normal (she is five and already used to not being touched by anyone unless it is necessary. She will not realize how wrong this is until she nearly dies in Canaan House). However, Aiglamene keeps holding on as she leads her out of the nursery to the background of Pelleamena and Aisamorta’s voices. This will not be a common occurrence.

\--

Harrowhark falls in love with Gideon...probably at birth. Gideon’s is the face she sees most often. The actual _face_ , that is. She sees Gideon probably only slightly less than she sees her mother and father, but they are painted and poised and perfect.

Gideon is none of that. She’s above it. Harrowhark toddles after her for years, then walks, then runs after her. She does everything to keep up with Gideon, to make her want to stay, to understand her jokes that she comes up with after long mornings and afternoons spent at Aiglamene’s side, fighting and learning and swearing when none of the nuns or Crux are near enough to hear them.

But as time wears on, Gideon starts running from Harrowhark, and then Harrowhark starts running from her. She can never bring herself to hate, only to hurt, and it hurts her in turn, but she _can’t_ let go, because as soon as she does, Gideon will leave her and the Ninth. Just like her parents did.

So, instead of running away or after Gideon, Harrowhark starts running towards her.

\--

She started to hate her when she was fourteen and Harrow was twelve. 

Now, Gideon is sixteen and Harrow is throwing, quite literally, everything at her. One of her skeletons picks up the femur of a different one that Gideon just broke apart and chucks it at her, nearly hitting her in the eye. She ducks, of course, she’s got better reflexes than a skeleton that Harrow’s been holding together for nearly thirty minutes, but still. “Can you _not_ aim for my face? It’s kind of my money maker,” she snarks.

“You don’t even have an allowance, Griddle,” Harrow bites back, and ouch. Low blow. Gideon steps back, rolling her shoulders as she sticks her tongue out at Harrow, and then dusts another skeleton that comes up on her left. Her arms are starting to get a bit tired from this, if she’s honest, but she and Harrow have gone at each other like this for over two hours before. No way is she throwing the towel in now.

Glaring at the five skeletons left, she takes note of how they’re all actually holding together - that being poorly, cause Harrow’s getting tired, she can tell - and then gives Harrow a good long stare, too. She’s sweat and bloodsweat through almost all of her makeup, big pink streaks dripping through the white and black so badly that it’s like rain on a window. Her hands are shaking enough that Gideon knows she can’t hold out much longer herself, which...wait.

Did Harrow sleep at all last night? No, Gideon has fought her on two days of no sleep before and she’s lasted longer than this. Harrow probably hasn’t slept all week, then, if she’s this bad off when they agreed to only ten skeletons, but Harrow could keep reforming them. The fucking idiot. If they don’t end this soon, then she’s going to collapse and Gideon will have to carry her bony ass back into Drearburh ( _ugh_ ) and take the blame for the brat herself not taking better care of her dumb body.

Her fragile, pointy, bony, needs-to-eat-more-really dumbass body. Fuck.

Squaring her shoulders, Gideon cracks her neck and then charges, knocking aside the two skeletons immediately in her path and then ignoring the others. Two of them clatter to pieces anyway, as one of the ones she charged flies into another and just gives out at the impact, but Gideon doesn’t stop to do a fist pump or anything, just keeps heading towards Harrow, who’s finally seemed to catch onto what she thinks Gideon is doing and is backing away rapidly.

Even trying to be fast, though, Harrow’s no match for Gideon, and ends up nearly ass over tea kettle when Gideon slows down just enough to not actually hurt her as she jams her shoulder against Harrow’s clavicle. Her dumb as shit Reverend Daughter starts to fall, arms windmilling out, but Gideon drops her sword and catches her with her right arm, sighing as she hears the last three skeletons fall apart behind her as Harrow’s concentration fails.

“You’re a fucking idiot and if you pull this shit again I will tell Aiglamene to tell Crux that you’re skipping too much sleep and then he’ll stand guard outside your fucking cell to make sure you’re not sneaking around at night,” she says, trying to cover her concern with anger. It’s fucking annoying to fight when Harrow’s not actually at her best.

Harrow looks like she’s ready to spit blood even as she tries to glare at Gideon, but settles for just viciously pushing her away and stalking back towards the castle from the landing area. As Gideon picks up her sword and heads back to the platform, though, Harrow calls out, “It’s not coming, Griddle! I canceled it two weeks ago!”

Her knuckles go white as she grips her sword tight enough to chafe. Escape no. 58, ruined. Only infinity to go.

It’s a goddamn shame that she loves Harrow. 

\--

Ortus corners her, a month before she knows that she is going to inadvertently kill him, and says in his sweaty, horrid voice, “You could be doing a much better job of pretending to hate her, you know?”

Harrowhark sneers at him and slips away, walking quickly as she throws back, “I certainly do _not_ know what you’re talking about, and you would be smart to drop it. You’re my cavalier, not my mother. Don’t try to know my mind.”

For all that he’s a twenty-eight year old child who has never considered cardio to be worth his effort, Ortus catches up quickly because he’s still in possession of much longer legs than Harrowhark will ever have. “Don’t be obstinate, Harrowhark,” he says, voice dropping conspiratorially as they pass a nun. “Everyone else, including her, may be blind here, but I still have working eyes. You’re a fool over her the same way you’re a fool over a newly unearthed necromantic text. But kudos for choosing someone who will never realize how you feel unless you spell it out for her.” 

He looks smug underneath his paint when Harrowhark spares him a glare, and that just makes it worse. When he finally meets her eyes he raises his hands and falls back a few steps. “I’m just saying...if this were any other house, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

“If this were any other house, Nigenad, you wouldn’t be my cavalier and I wouldn’t have to put up with Gideon in the first place because there’d by thousands of other people my age to interact with. Yet here we are, so kindly stop pretending to know what goes on in my head just because you think yourself a romantic.”

He snorts under his breath, but acquiesces with a soft, “As you say, my Heir,” and then leaves once Harrowhark reaches the library.

When she gets the letter from the First and the confirmation of a shuttle request three days later, Harrowhark knows what she has to do and what will come of it, resigning herself to two more deaths for the sake of her goals.

\--

She’s hiding behind some horribly green tree, watching with growing rage as Dulcinea strokes her hand across Gideon’s arm, toying with the end of the sleeve so that she can “accidentally” touch _her_ cavalier’s skin.

Doesn’t the bitch know that that’s Harrowhark’s property? Gideon Nav belongs to the Ninth, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus is the be all, end all of the Ninth. She is the Immovable Object that keeps her house from floating into obscurity, and that means that Gideon is _hers_.

Even with that rage boiling underneath her skin though, Harrowhark doesn’t make a move when Dulcinea leans in and laughs at Gideon’s unflinching blank expression. “I wonder,” she hears the woman say, “Would it be breaking your vows to kiss me? I don’t think it would count as long as you don’t make any sounds. Or maybe your necromancer will find out and get mad. I wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of a tomb maiden!”

Gideon shakes her head at Dulcinea, or maybe at the ideas that the woman is suggesting, but Harrowhark can see the subtle uptick of her lip and it makes her stomach fill with lead instantly, the rage cooling in her into a sick, bitter jealousy.

She leaves as quietly as she came, certain at least that the two were too distracted by each other to notice her.

(If Gideon notices that night that her blanket nest is not in the same shape it was when she left it that morning, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t make note of the missing undershirt either, probably assuming with her dumb, backstabbing, trusting, idiot brain that it’s just been collected for washing by some of the skeletons. Even if she did notice, though, what would she say? Would she accuse Harrowhark of taking it for some nefarious purpose? Maybe. She wouldn’t be anywhere close, though.)

\--

Gideon knows for a fact that she brought four undershirts with her, but she can’t find her favorite one. On the one hand, maybe the skeletons have it with the rest of Harrow’s copious laundry. On the other hand, maybe Canaan house eats clothing when she’s not looking. On the _other_ other slightly more likely hand, she lost it in her blanket pile.

It’s fine. It’ll turn up, probably in Harrow’s hands, scolding her about keeping better track of her shit. That’ll be alright. She shrugs to herself and starts stripping out of the clothes she slept in, idly reaching for a clean pair of underwear as she steps out of the old ones. She’s just barely pulled them over her ass when the door opens behind her with the subtle shiver of Harrow crossing over her own bone wards The sound of the door shutting is loud in the sudden tense silence until Gideon looks over her shoulder at Harrow and smirks. “Did you forget that the rest of us have skin and muscles over our bones? Or are my back and ass just that good to look at?”

Harrow snorts and pushes her hood back as she walks past Gideon. “Don’t be crass, Griddle. I I simply thought for once that you’d already be out and about, doing your best to terrorize the children of the Fourth House and managing to draw unnecessary attention to us without even opening your oversized mouth.”

Shaking her head, Gideon finishes pulling her clothes on and then follows Harrow. “There’s no need to be so tense, my penumbral lady. It’s only eight.” Even as she says this, Gideon notices the streaks of dried bloodsweat on Harrow’s face and the spots where her paint has been rubbed away under her nose and eyes. “Harrow, how long have you been up?”

“That’s irrelevant. I’m done until I’ve slept for a few hours anyways. And don’t bother yourself about it, Nav. Now, if all you’re going to do is ask useless questions and stare imploringly, then go _fawn_ over the Third or the Seventh. Just make sure to put your face on before you go embarrass our House!” Harrow stalks into the bathroom then, slamming the door behind her, leaving Gideon to just stand there, mouth hanging open at the uncharacteristic vehemence that had been in Harrow’s voice.

Minutes pass with her just standing there, no sound coming from the bathroom, so Gideon goes over to the makeup table and puts her face on, careful for once about the lines. Even though she takes her time, Harrow still hasn’t done anything or left the bathroom when Gideon’s finished and has slipped her sunglasses on.

So as she heads for the door, she grabs a piece of filmsy and a marker and writes carefully on it before setting it on Harrow’s pillow and leaving.

_Don’t forget to eat something besides spite, sugarlips._

\--

She’s coming back from the laboratory when she runs into the livelier of the Third sisters. The woman’s alone for once, and looking vaguely flushed, the way Gideon does when she’s doing drills with her rapier in their rooms and thinks that Harrowhark isn’t there.

Odd, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. Her twin is obviously the real competition, if there’s competition to be had with them in the first place. Harrowhark is content to simply ignore her, setting her shoulders into a stiff line as she walks past, but then a hand is grabbing onto her elbow, stopping her.

Carefully, so as to not unsettle the veil over her eyes or let the princess (what a fucking pedantic title) see any hints of bloodsweat near her nose, she turns to look at her and painfully enunciates, “Is there something I might help you with?”

“Oh! So you do talk! Babs and I had a little bet going that maybe you had a vow of silence too, but had broken it to speak to Teacher. I thought you were just quiet. Maybe shy?” She flutters her blond eyelashes at Harrowhark, violet irises almost arresting in how opaque the color of them is, and Harrowhark wants nothing more than to put a bone spike through her eyes. Gideon wouldn’t be so enamoured with her then, would she.

Inhaling to give herself a modicum of control, Harrowhark glares at her through her veil. “I just don’t like to associate with people who have no understanding of common decency. Now, can I help you, or are you just satiating your impolite curiosity?”

The woman startles at that, hand falling away from Harrowhark’s arm. “I’ve been looking for the Ninth. Your cavalier, specifically, not you. But I saw you and hoped that you could point me towards Gideon. Naberius wants to duel with her again, and it was so exciting the first time that I wanted to wat-”

She breaks off with jolt as Harrowhark puts herself as much into the woman’s space as she can without drawing attention to the fact that she has to go on her toes to do it. “Keep you idiotic cav in check, why don’t you? _My_ cavalier has better things to do than entertain the two of you. And while you’re at it, how about you keep your _greedy_ little fingers away from her as well.”

The princess steps back at that (oh. Coronabeth. That’s her name), eyebrows raised high enough to make Harrowhark’s own forehead ache at the sight. It doesn’t matter though. Scoffing, she turns on her heel and starts back down the hall, content to leave the Third to her own cowardice.

\--

She never does get to speak to Dulcinea about staying away from Gideon. Or about anything really. The only chance she gets is when the Seventh asks for her help and Harrowhark, like a _fool_ offers not only herself, but Gideon.

Her poor, broken, half dead Gideon.

The ambient chill of Canaan House doesn’t bother her. She can’t feel her knees anymore, but that also doesn’t bother her. The hair on her legs and arms and everywhere but her head is gone, and even that is an inch shorter. If she has eyelashes, she’ll be surprised. But none of that matters either. What matters is that she _has_ to get Gideon back to their rooms. She stumbles slightly at a dip in the floor under them, from age or too many steps or what she doesn’t know, and almost drops Gideon, scrambling to keep a hold on her cavalier when she realizes what’s happening. It takes her a solid two minutes to have a steady grip on her, and Gideon’s passed back out again, so Harrowhark has to drag her instead of just leading.

It’s the most terrifying experience of her life. She has never felt this kind of fear before and it’s horrible, to fear for someone else and their wellbeing. How Gideon can worry about so many people who don’t even matter in this cursed tomb of a mansion, Harrowhark will never understand, because fearing for Gideon and _only_ Gideon is almost too much for her.

When they get back to their rooms and talk until Gideon passes out again, this time in her blanket nest (by God, she wishes she could put Gideon in a real bed without her protesting), Harrow takes a long look at her abused cavalier and then rushes to the bathroom and vomits, knees freezing and numb on the cold tile as she heaves nothing but acid into the toilet. It feels like too much time has passed when she finally pushes herself up from the floor and flushes the toilet. She washes her hands and her face, then gets a towel wet and takes it with her when she goes back to Gideon, who is thankfully asleep.

Carefully, slowly, she wipes the traces of bile and blood off of Gideon’s face, then refolds the cloth so that she can wipe off the face paint with a clean side. It takes a while because she’s trying _so_ hard to not wake Gideon up. She needs sleep right now. And food and water and to have never had the misfortune of ending up on the Ninth. She needs to have never met Harrowhark, because then she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Harrowhark has cursed her with her very existence and nothing will ever make up for that.

Through all of the torments and hells that they’re put each other through, Harrowhark had never heard Gideon scream until today. She never should have _asked_.

Maybe an hour later, maybe only minutes, she finishes cleaning Gideon’s face and collapses onto her knees in front of her. She tosses the washcloth somewhere behind herself and cushions her arms on the ledge of Gideon’s lap and just...stares at her. Watches the weak flutter of her pulse in her throat, watches the shallow but consistent rise and fall of her chest. Her skin is slowly getting it’s flush back, though Harrowhark can see the impressive bruises forming under her eyes, a dark purple against the warm brown of the rest of her face.

In a few hours, Harrowhark will go and get the Sixth, tell him to look after her cavalier, because Gideon is more than bones and cartilage, requires more care than Harrowhark knows how to give. But for now, she just...looks. Just reassures herself, as she presses her hand to the side of Gideon’s throat to keep time with her pulse, that Gideon is still here. 

\--

Gideon’s staring at the head of Protesilaus the Seventh, hands folded over her mouth as Palamedes putters around his and Camilla’s rooms. Gideon hasn’t brought up the ridiculous pile of weapons on the cavalier bed and Palamedes has in turn not brought up the fact that Harrow has probably committed at least one murder, if not all of them.

This is stupid. No, it’s beyond stupid. It’s a load of fucking horseshit, and Gideon’s never even seen a horse, that’s how much shit it is. She’s seen all the fucking animal skeletons that the Ninth keeps for their necros to practice on, has been terrorized by a fucking giant snake construct more than once in her life because of Harrow, but this really takes the fucking cake for animal related shit situations.

(She doesn’t actually know if all snakes are as big as the skeleton they have at the Ninth. Maybe that was a small one? She’ll ask Palamedes when it’s not tenser than Sister Lacrimorta’s shoulders.) 

Cracking her neck, Gideon resists the urge to scrub at her face, not wanting to deal with the paint smearing onto her hands and clothes, or with Palamedes giving her that same concerned look he had when she saw him after the siphoning trial. The bruises across her body are still a dramatic, and unfortunately painful, dark plum, and there are a _lot_ of them for all that Gideon didn’t actually do anything physically during the trial besides, you know, almost die. 

Waiting like this is doing nothing but piss her off. She wants Camilla to come back with Harrow already, wants Harrow to explain what the fuck is going on, why she would kill Pro and leave Dulcinea defenseless. It doesn’t make sense. Harrow doesn’t care about anyone else, why would she kill someone? Why would she leave Gideon out of it? Why would she lie to her after Gideon had finally gotten her to start trusting her?

Why would Harrow _betray_ her like this?

Gideon startles when a hand lands on her shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts. Turning her head up, she meets Palamedes's eyes and firm expression. “You’re thinking too loud. Relax. Camilla will find her and we’ll figure it out.”

He waits until Gideon nods to take his hand away, but doesn’t stop looking Gideon in the eye. “I know you’re mad at her. But what I don’t know, Nav, is whether you’re mad because she possibly killed someone...or because she didn’t ask you to help her with it.”

(The thing is: she doesn’t know either. She hates that Harrow can do this to her. She hates Harrow, both for bringing her to Canaan House and for doing this. Hates her for making her life a living hell that only gets worse as she moves through it. But more than anything, Gideon hates her for being the first and only person that she’s ever loved.)

\--

The water is tepid and comforting in the way that any ritual is. It’s soothing, to be in the embrace of her mother’s superstitions. To not have to fear when she tells Gideon the horrible, horrible truth of her birth. Her very existence. And the blame she bears in every misery that has befallen Gideon since her conception.

Nothing will ever make up for anything about Harrow or her actions, but at least the water will keep her secrets. And at least, in the water, Gideon forgives her. Absolves her of all her sins as she rubs her hands up and down Harrowhark’s back, holding her the way she hasn’t since they were children.

It’s been so long since she has felt the warmth of Gideon’s love.

Pelleamena told her once that if she treated Nav (that’s how she referred to her. _Nav_ , never Gideon. Her father wouldn’t say her name at all) like a hound, cared for her, loved her, and expected nothing but unwavering loyalty in return, then maybe she would have a real cavalier one day. But if Harrowhark tried to force her to stay at her side, then it would never end well. This was just one of many horrible heart-to-hearts that they had in the pool her mother had kept in her cell, but she never really understood the severity of what Pellemena was telling her. After all, she was six at the time. 

Harrowhark pulls herself back from her memories, focuses instead on the feeling of Gideon’s soaked shirt bunched up under her hands as she claws at her cavalier’s back. She wants to scream. She wants to kiss her. She wants to dig her way into Gideon’s chest cavity and bury herself in the heartflesh that she finds there. Wants to plant herself in the only fertile ground the Ninth has produced. She’s crying against Gideon’s collarbone, tucked perfectly under her chin, and it takes her too long, really, to realise that she’s not just crying, but chanting, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over and over again, words getting lost in the sobs

She doesn’t know if Gideon can even understand what she’s saying, but it doesn’t matter because she’s saying it anyway. No control over her mouth or her hands as she clings to her cavalier and _loves_ and _hurts_ for everything that she has done to Gideon. She has ruined her, time and again, but Gideon is still here. Still holding her, still keeping her from falling into the water, into her own self hatred, into obscurity. One flesh, one end.

Without Gideon Nav, Harrowhark is nothing. But with her, she is everything and more.

\--

She’s been half asleep for maybe an hour when Harrow crawls into her bed. The thing’s barely big enough for Gideon as is, but she doesn’t say that or anything else as Harrow slips under the covers and curls up against her.

Rolling over, she wraps an arm around Harrow and pulls her even closer. “You know,” she mumbles, voice rough from all the emotion of the night, “this would probably be easier in the other bed.”

“...”

Gideon rolls her eyes and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Harrow’s head, inhaling the smell of damp ash and sea salt from the curls. “Harrow, I can _hear_ you thinking. What’s up?” 

Harrow just burrows closer, pressing her face against Gideon’s neck and tangling their ankles together. She’s a furnace against Gideon, warming the small bed further. Her ribs stand out more than Gideon would like to be able to feel, especially considering that Harrow’s sleep shirt is rather thick, but at the same time something inside of Gideon is singing with the knowledge of how fragile Harrow is underneath her hands. She could break her so easily.

She wants to _eat_ her. 

One of Harrow’s hands comes up and rests right above her breasts, thin fingers pressing into the hollow where her collarbones meet, and Gideon’s mouth goes dry suddenly. She struggles to keep her breathing even, hyper aware of the length of Harrow’s fingers, how the heel of her palm is resting on the swell of her breasts, how her nails are just _barely_ pushing against the thin flesh of her neck.

“Your heart is beating very fast, Gideon.”

God, and that’s the best worst part of this whole thing. Harrow hasn’t called her anything but “Gideon” since they got to the pool. No “Griddle” or “Nav”. Just her name. Forcing herself to swallow, knowing that Harrow will hear her muscles working, is probably feeling and hearing her heartbeat, Gideon chokes out, “Mhm, yeah, well...maybe yours is just slow because it doesn’t have to work as hard. You’re so short after all, it’s probably easy to pump all of your blood.”

Literally the weakest comeback to something that wasn’t even an insult. She’s losing it. Gideon is going absolutely insane and it’s all because she’s incapable of dealing with the physical proximity of the one person who has been the center of her life since she was two. It’s ridiculous. She’s loved Harrow since she was five, hated her since she was fourteen.

But she doesn’t think she can keep hating her. 

Harrow hums and Gideon feels it against her throat and barely stops herself from groaning. “Okay, we need the big bed. Come on,” she pushes the blanket off of them, but Harrow doesn’t move, just pushes her head up and taps it against the bottom of Gideon’s chin.

“I’m not moving,” she mutters, putting more pressure on Gideon’s chest. The cold air and the sudden reminder of the _strength_ in Harrow’s hands makes her stiffen, and she can feel goosebumps forming on her skin.

Carefully, Gideon shifts herself with her left arm, keeping Harrow tucked against her body with her right until her feet are off of the mattress. She grumbles as Harrow refuses to help by doing anything useful with her body. She’s just limp as Gideon wrangles them upright, quickly sliding her left arm underneath Harrow’s butt to keep her up as she walks them around to the properly sized bed. 

Once they’re at the side, Gideon takes her right arm away from Harrow’s back and pushes the covers back, then gently lays Harrow down on the bed. Gideon cracks her neck, then looks back down and finds large, dark eyes staring at her from a pale, sharp face. “Are you going back to...your bed?” Harrow asks, and something about her seems so small, so breakable.

Gideon never wants to leave her.

Shaking her head, Gideon crawls onto the mattress and gently nudges Harrow over into the middle of the bed. Pulling the covers up over them, Gideon stares at her, worrying her lower lip as Harrow stares back. They’re just watching each other, then suddenly they aren’t, both of them moving forward, dragging themselves and each other closer. Harrow tucks herself back against Gideon’s neck and Gideon puts Harrows hands back on her collarbones, pressing her fingers in harder than Harrow had before. Their legs twine together and Gideon pulls Harrow in against her chest, digging her own fingers into the spaces between Harrow’s ribs.

Harrow’s breathing quick and heavy against her neck, her body warming the sheets faster than Gideon thinks should be possible. She’s a fire, burning under Gideon’s skin, and Gideon has always always always loved her, but she’s never wanted to say it before. Never like this. 

Curling even closer around her, like if she just tries hard enough she can force them into the same body, the same mind, Gideon whispers, low and warm and happy, “Your heart’s beating real fast, Harrow.”

She gets a quiet, pleased laugh for her troubles, and Gideon Nav feels her heart swell.

( _I could learn to love you sweetly_ , she thinks, kissing the top of Harrow’s head.)

\--

It’s dark and echoey in the bone enclosure that Harrow’s made for them to hide in. The air feels heavy with dust and dirt and Gideon thinks she tastes blood on the back of her tongue, but she and Harrow are still half in each other’s minds, so that might be Harrow’s blood and tongue that she’s tasting, not her own (which...kind of hot, but it’s really not the time).

Gideon finds Cam’s eyes in the darkness even as she obsesses over the sound of Harrow’s struggling breaths. The look she finds meeting her own understands what Gideon already knew would be the only possible end to all of this after what Ianthe did. Cam nods, a barely there gesture and shapes with her lips “I’m sorry,” giving no sound to her apology. 

She’s up and walking before Harrow knows what she’s doing, and she can still _feel_ Harrow in the back of her mind, but can’t bring herself to force her out. Even as she approaches the spiked railing and judges the angle, even as Harrow pushes herself up on shaky arms and says, “Nav, what are you doing?”

“The cruelest thing anyone has ever done to you in your whole entire life, believe me.”

(Those spikes look like they’re gonna hurt. That’s gonna be painful, but there’s no other option. Her rapier’s gone, and there’s no way she can stab herself with her longsword. That would just be stupid. No, she’s gonna have to go down on the spikes and go down hard. Ugh. What a pile of shit.)

Harrow’s looking at her with growing understanding and Cam has turned away, as if giving them privacy. Always knows how to read her bone enclosures, that Camilla. A real trooper. And a fucking shame about Palamedes. God, this entire fucking thing is so messed up. They never should’ve come here. She should’ve locked Harrow up in the fucking Tomb and then never moved from in front of it.

“For the Ninth,” Gideon says, turning her gaze away from Harrow for the last time and throwing herself onto the spikes. But she’s never been one for loyalty to her house. Never cared about the Ninth for anything other than Harrow. There’s no point to her if there isn’t a cranky bone witch who’ll yell at her about stupid things.

Everything Gideon Nav has ever done has been for Harrow.

(Dying hurts. It really, really, hurts. God, this is a shitty way to go. Fuck, and Harrow’s trying to look at her. She doesn’t want to see her own body, Harrow, come on, be fucking productive about this. And even as she lifts Harrow’s arms, fixes the balance of her hips and tells her, “Yes you can, it’s just less great and less hot,” Gideon can feel herself dying. Feel her blood draining out the sides of the wounds, hot and thick as it soaks her clothes. Her head is hazy, eyes starting to fail her as the world slowly goes black around the edges of her vision. The horrible, mind splitting sensation of seeing out of two sets of eyes.

She can’t catch her breath and her fingers are starting to go numb. One of her feet twitches without her control, then the rest of the leg spasms. Something’s clawing up her throat, vile and choking, and then she’s coughing blood out over the roaring, restless ocean of the First. _My abs are totally ruined now_ , she thinks, feeling herself slip away, the sight leaving her physical body, and then she can’t even feel anything, can barely even taste the blood soaked air on her tongue. All of it, leaving her. Or maybe Gideon’s the one leaving all of it.)

“See you on the flip side, sugarlips.”

\--

“You know, I’d almost think the bone specialists were from the Ninth with how well they grafted this for me,” Ianthe says, sitting down next to her and stretching her prosthetic across Harrow’s shoulders. Even with it behind her, Harrow can see the gilt of the bone. It’s ostentatious, obnoxious, _gaudy_. 

And the bitch flaunts it like that’s good. If she wore something like that on the Ninth, Sister Lacrimorta would sentence her to the oss for at least three months for daring to exist with a replacement like that. ( _She could do with a few years in the oss_ , whispers some part of her mind that doesn’t feel quite like her. _After what she did to her cavalier, to her own sister_.)

Harrow shrugs Ianthe’s arm off and gets up from her seat. “Yes. Almost. And yet, we still manage tendons better. A miracle. Maybe in another myriad, they’ll be able to do a full skeleton for you.”

Ianthe is quick to follow after her even as Harrow attempts to outpace her, heading towards the library of the Mithraeum. But no matter how fast she walks, Harrow can’t get rid of Ianthe. She’s nearly as tall as Gideon was and it’s pissing her off. “Do you need something from me, or are you just bored?”

The princess shrugs and leans against a wall as they come to a stop. “A bit of both? It’s fun to rile you up, and a lot easier now, too. You’re willing to talk, for starters, and every now and then a little bit of _her_ slips out of you. Does that happen with me and Babs?”

Gritting her teeth, Harrow quickly opens the cover of a keypad and types in the code she was given to allow access to all of the locked shelves in the library, then waits as the door slides open. “Don’t mention her, don’t mention him, and don’t assume that I would care one way or another. Your cav was just as much of a pain in the ass as you are.”

Once the door has finished it’s horribly slow process of unlocking itself and all the other areas of the library that also contain wards, lock, and gates, Harrow walks in, hoping that Ianthe will be too slow or possibly find an ounce of kindness in her dried up heart, so that Harrow can have some peace and fucking quiet. But of course she’s not that lucky. Of course not.

Harrow’s luck ran out the moment that Gideon decided her promises meant nothing if Harrow wasn’t there to see them fulfilled.

At the very least, she knows what she’s looking for today. Shaking her head, Harrow makes her way to the back of the room, weaving between looming stacks and bookshelves until she finds the journals from the previous lyctor from the Ninth. She grabs three of the slim volumes, then takes two from the shelf that holds the Sixth’s as well, adding them to the pile in her arms. Once that’s done, she presses an indent on the side of the case and watches as it locks back up. With an inhale that’s more of a sigh than a proper breath, she turns around and proceeds to almost drop all of the journals because Ianthe is standing a _literal_ inch away from her, staring down at Harrow with Naberius’ horrible blue eyes.

“What?” she bites out, clutching the journals close.

Ianthe tilts her head and grins, slow and awful. “Harrowhark.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

\--

She tries not to think during times like this. It makes it easier, more bearable. And yet...Harrow can’t help but have her mind drift to the thoughts, and occasionally memories, of Gideon. _If Gideon were here_ , her mind will supply, and she won’t be able to keep herself from following that trail to its inevitable and usually upsetting conclusion.

Today, it’s less upsetting though, and more frustrating.

“Do yo-ha...do you have to keep,” she stops talking to choke back a moan, digging her nails into the gilt bone of Ianthe’s prosthetic as the woman thrusts two fingers into her cunt. “Fuck! Do you really have to be so ah-aggressive?” Harrow’s this close to just sobbing because the feeling of Ianthe’s fingers inside of her is exquisite but it never lasts long enough to actually make the sensation anything more than frustrating, and she’s certain that Gideon would be better at this for her.

“I was unaware that you wanted me to be gentle, Harry. After all, we’re not exactly fond of one another,” she laughs, breath hot and wet as it brushes against Harrow’s ear, and Harrow can’t help the shiver that wracks her body as Ianthe curls her fingers _just_ right and then immediately pulls them out to rub over the pulsing bud of her clit, sticky with her own fluids. “Or...we’re not fond of each other’s personalities. But you know, I am kind of partial to that _sound_ you make, you know...this one.”

Ianthe’s tongue curls around the shell of Harrow’s ear, caressing the cartilage, just as her bone arm moves up from her stomach to her breasts, gilt metacarpals cupping the small mound of flesh before twisting her nipple, _hard_ , while her flesh hand pinches at the delicate skin of her clit and then one nail scratches against the center of it. Harrow’s not really sure what noise it is, exactly, that she makes, because her brain goes blank for what feels like hours, only really coming back online when she registers that Ianthe’s got her fingers inside her again, thrusting fast and hard into Harrow as she shakes apart. 

Most of her orgasms from Ianthe end like this; with Harrow barely repressing a scream as she’s quickly driven into oversensitivity, her breasts massaged and pinched until they’re red and almost sore, and then that fucking gold prosethtic is settling over her clit, cold, sharp fingers rubbing against it in harsh circles as she fucks her over, and then past, the edge. Not stopping until Harrow is forcing her hands away, shuddering with the burn of her nerves. Harrow kicks at Ianthe as she tries to pull her back, breath coming in trembling gasps as she registers the pulsing of her clit, the way even the air is too much against her naked body. Her thighs are sticky and she can feel the air cooling her cum against the lips of her cunt and it’s all _too much_.

( _It would be better_ , her traitorous mind supplies, _if Gideon were the one doing it. Her fingers are thicker, more callused. They’d feel better inside me. And I know how she would do it_. Because, in her weaker moments, when she brings herself to completion, someone else’s muscle memory takes over, curls her fingers inside of her, circles her clit with barely there touches that drive her to biting her pillow to muffle the shouts.)

“Well?” Ianthe asks, smug and annoying. One of these days, Harrow is going to kill her, going to tear her limb from fucking limb, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own mind supplying these thoughts or the remnants of Gideon, but it doesn’t matter because the idea feels _good_.

Harrow looks over her shoulder and finds the exact expression of self-satisfaction that she knew would be resting on Ianthe’s face and grimaces at her in return. “Congratulations, you did exactly what I asked you to do. Do you want a medal?” She’s proud of herself for keeping her voice in control, but Harrow longs for the mask of her facepaint, wishes that she still had that as an option, but this is the First, not the Ninth and she is no longer Harrowhark Nonagesimus.

“Not a medal, per say,” Ianthe says, and Harrow has to pull herself away from her thoughts to understand what she’s going on about. “But you know, I wouldn’t be opposed to getting another orgasm. You’re on par with how good Babs was, now that you’ve had some practice. You’re a quick study, Harry.” And she winks at Harrow with those horrible eyes.

The feeling of her face contorting into a sneer is far too familiar around Ianthe now, so Harrow doesn’t bother trying to get rid of it as she crawls off the massive bed in the other lyctor’s room and starts pulling her clothes back on. “Color me surprised that you and your sister weren’t the ones fucking. Here I thought your little game required being together for everything.”

A spike of blood drops from the ceiling and nearly impales Harrow when she tries to walk forward, still liquid enough to threaten splattering on her clothes. “Do not bring up Coronabeth, Harrowhark,” Ianthe growls.

“Then don’t bring up your cavalier, Ianthe. It’s bad enough that I have to stare at his eyes when we do this,” she retorts, walking around the spike and leaving. 

\--

The Mithraeum is warmer than any part of the Ninth could even dream of being, but Harrow still feels as though she’s freezing whenever she steps outside of her room. The windows don’t help it, either. Nothing but cold, empty space and distant stars.

Nothing except her and the heartless souls of every other person on this fucking ship. So few people, but still. Most of them have the same thoughts as Ianthe, that it’s better to forget about your cavalier, leave them in the dust behind you. Just one more person you’ve trampled to get here. If only she knew what Harrow really is.

If only Gideon were still here.

“You don’t often stare out of the windows for this long, Harrow.”

She turns her head, then inclines it, too numb at the moment to properly bow to her God. The Emperor isn’t actually looking at her anyways, which she’s thankful for. (It’s hard to bear the weight of those eyes, especially when she doesn’t know if he is aware of the crime her parents committed to create her.) Instead, he stares out into the abyss of space as well, the light of the stars just barely reflecting and adding to the pull of his own.

“It’s much brighter than the Ninth was, even when we aren’t facing towards Dominicus. I find it...hard to bear, at times.” She sighs and crosses her arms, rubbing her hands across her upper arms to fight off some of the chill. Even if she were still stuck on this ship, if she had Gideon with her, she knows that it would feel warmer. At the very least, less lonely. Less like a tomb.

He spares a glance at her, she knows this despite the fact that her gaze is firmly fixed on the impossible horizon in front of her and thus unable to actually see that he’s looking, and Harrow feels her body tense as goosebumps break out across the back of her neck. “You’re still unhappy here. I’m sorry. I wish you could have ascended in a more peaceful manner. I know it was hard for you.”

There’s a lump forming in her throat that Harrow doesn’t want to acknowledge the existence of, let alone have the Emperor hear when she speaks. It feels like he already knows, though. Like every passing thought is accessible to him. “She would have been...thrilled to be here. To have the opportunities that being here presents. It’s hard to not think of that, every now and then. But it won’t be an issue, my Lord. I promise.”

Harrow offers him another sharp inclination of her head and turns to go. She needs to be by herself for a while. And crying in front of the Necrolord Prime doesn’t really seem like something Gideon would want her to do. Still…”Thank you, my Lord, for your concern. I will do my best to not be the future cause of it.”

\--

Left foot back. Right arm straight. Left arm behind the waist, but ready to move at a whim. She’s not wearing them, but Harrow can almost feel the pressure that the gauntlet of knuckle knives would exert, the way it would cinch and bind her wrist and forearm. It itches.

The mirrored walls just barely allow for the echo of her movements, soft as they are, to reach Harrow’s ears as she practices her footwork, carefully moving forward and back in the delineated space on the floor. The worn, flexible wood underneath her feet gives just a bit of bounce to her step, as if to remind her that she needs to be softer, faster. She has to be just as good as Gideon.

No. She needs to be _better_. Gideon was good, but Naberius still beat her. Harrow needs to improve on the skills that still sometimes sit borrowed and heavy in her bones, needs to add insult to injury with her necromancy. If she can’t beat Ianthe in her sleep, then what’s the fucking point?

She watches her many reflections as she moves, noting the places where she remembers Aiglamene correcting Gideon’s form during those three months of practice before the trip to Canaan House. Thinks back even farther and remembers the task master’s attempts at teaching Ortus. Back before his father died with her parents, when he still cared about what it would mean to be a cavalier. _Keep your back straight. Don’t try to block everything I do. Try to evade. Think, don’t react. You want to be like your father? Then work for it. Before Nav gets big enough to pick up a rapier and beat you as a beginner, Nigenad!_

Harrow swallows thickly and shakes her head, willing away the specters of her home. She’s got too much of Gideon’s longsword training stuck in her muscles, too much confidence that her sword is large enough, strong enough, to catch any blow that comes her way. She knows the theories that she needs to pick out the precise drills and muscle memory, pracisted them often on Gideon before she died, but it’s still hard to filter through everything.

And part of her doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to brush past the superfluous information and memories. No, Harrow wants to cherish them, wants to caress them in her mind, hold them to her horrible, broken heart. Like if she loves them enough, watches them enough, she’ll be able to breathe life back into the woman she loved. 

But if that were all it took, she’d have had Gideon in her arms years ago. Not just haunting her, the way they all do, all two hundred and one souls, sitting quiet and dead in the personal ossuary her heart has long since turned into.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and meets her gaze in the reflection directly across from her. One gold eye and one black stare at her from the mirror, challenging her. Harrow cracks her neck and continues.

\--

Pelleamena is teaching her how to float while her father sits on the edge of the pool, his pants rolled up just enough that he can dangle his feet in the water without getting them wet. He’s not fond of being fully submerged, but he doesn’t mind doing just this. And it sets Pelleamena at ease, which makes him happy.

(They have never once said any of this outloud, but Harrowhark knows it well, just as she knows Gideon likes to run in the snow leek fields when they get misted because it feels like a gentle rain.)

Her mother’s fingers are soft on the back of her neck and underneath her knees, reassuring her that if she fails, someone will catch her. But that’s not why they’re here. They never come here just to be in the water. (Harrowhark knows this well, too. She is seven and understands that her mother’s pool is a sacred place.)

“Harrowhark,” Her father starts, then stops briefly to cough into one hand. “Harrowhark, your mother and I think it would be best if you stopped paying so much attention to that girl.” Harrowhark spares a glance at him, but he’s not looking at her. Priamhark’s staring down into the water of the pool, watching his own reflection pensively as the skull-painted stranger goes slightly distorted every few moments from the waves the Harrow makes as she floats and Pelleamena adjust her body.

“What your father means, Harrowhark, is that it would be best if you didn’t get too close to Nav. She’s...a liability. Do you remember what we told you last year? About...yourself? And how we made you?”

Pelleamena is giving her a beseeching look, but Harrowhark knows that underneath her face paint, her mother’s expression is hard. She will never let any sign of weakness slip past the boundaries of her eyes. (That, too, is a lesson Harrow will take from her mother).

So she nods as best she can while floating as says, “Yes. I remember.” To her left, her father sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair.

Her mother just strokes a hand across Harrow’s face. “That’s good, Harrowhark. You see, Nav was supposed to be one of the children who helped you be born. She was supposed to die for you. But she didn’t. _Wouldn’t_. So that makes her dangerous.”

“She is not someone who can ever be your friend, Harrowhark,” her father motions to Pelleamena, so her mother guides Harrowhark over to her father so that she can easily look at him as he reaches down and pushes her wet hair away from her face. “At most, she can be a tool. But nothing more. And she may never, under any circumstances, be allowed to leave the Ninth. Aiglamene is training her to be a soilder, but the most that girl will ever do is guard the Locked Tomb until she is nothing but dust and bone. It is the oath of all who live here. You must make sure that she keeps it.”

Harrowhark stares up at her father’s face, upside down and unflinching, and Priamhark stares back. She doesn’t want to stop being friends with Gideon. She _loves_ Gideon. But her father says she can’t and her mother says Gideon is dangerous. And they know more than Harrowhark does, which means they must be right.

“I understand, Father.”

\--

It’s been years since Harrow last dreamt of her first, and worst, betrayal of Gideon Nav, but it still wakes her with a start, heart pounding in her chest as she remembers the cold gaze of her father’s eyes.

Gone for nearly a century, yet still they haunt her.

She pushes herself up and out of bed, immediately reaching out and grabbing her rapier from where it rests during the night, and then goes to sort through her clothes for something to wear. Around her the hum of her usual shuttle helps to wake her up, soothing, if any sound that’s almost out of hearing range can be, as it moves in her bones. Harrow settles on pants and a thermal shirt, tossing the robe she had been considering back into the dresser before heading to the bathroom. She drops the clean clothes and her rapier on the counter next to the sink, then sheds the ones she slept in on her way over to the toilet.

It’s a simple morning routine: grab clothes, piss, count all of her bone armor as she pisses, wash her hands, get in the sonic shower, think about Gideon _in_ the sonic shower even though it and her stamina will only last for about five seconds after waking up, brush her teeth and then scrub her face far too aggressively because she’s gotten used to not putting on her bone paint anymore but still wants to, put on clean clothes, put on armor and buckle her rapier to her belt, brush her hair, and grab her cape. (Black, not the white. Not for today.)

The entire thing takes maybe five minutes, though it feels like she’s moving through Ninth House gravy. But she makes it through with about ten minutes to spare before she actually needs to be ready, so she’ll take that as a win. They’re going to need all the wins they can get. 

The intercom of the ship crackles to life and Ianthe’s voice fills her room. “I don’t know why you wanted to come here, but we’re about an hour out from the Ninth, Harrowhark. You do know that no one is going to even know who you are, let alone recognize you, right? It’s been awhile.”

Harrow hits a button near her door, voice saccharine as she says, “Thank you so much, Ianthe. I certainly hadn’t thought of that possibility. Now I know not to be disappointed.”

Ianthe groans, loud and obnoxious, and Harrow can perfectly imagine the way she’s rolling her stolen eyes. “Don’t be a bitch, Harry. Also this trip better be fast, I don’t want to get yelled at by Augustine again, and they’re going to know we skipped pretty soon.”

“Relax, Tridentarius.” Harrow grabs her gloves from the pocket of her cape, pulling them on and then sliding her bone gauntlets over them, then checking the fit of the rest of her armor. “I know for a fact that Augustine has already told the Necrolord about us taking a shuttle by now.”

She locks her room behind her, making her way towards the cockpit and helm, fighting the urge to hum as she goes. If Gideon were here, she’d make a comment on how the shuttle is practically the size of a small ship, and Harrow would call her quaint or backworld, but she wouldn’t be able to deny that her thoughts were the exact same when she first saw what amounted to a fleet of shuttles in the Mithraeum hangar.

But Gideon isn’t here. So she’s free to hum, the way Gideon would if she were the one used to this shuttle, to space travel, to this life. Gideon isn’t here. She hasn’t been for almost ninety years. Just ten shy of the death of her parents. _The cruelest thing anyone has ever done to you_. If only Gideon knew how right she’d been.

Soon.

The cockpit of the shuttle is noisy with Ianthe’s constant babbling. She talks out loud all the time, to think through her thoughts, to annoy Harrow, to have a conversation with the air, no one has really been able to figure it out so far. It just means that there’s really never a quiet moment with the woman.

“There you are, Harry. I was starting to wonder when you’d come see me to make sure I wasn’t flying us into an asteroid belt.” Ianthe flashes a grin at her over her shoulder and Harrow grimaces in return, unfortunately used to the sight of Naberius’ eyes in Ianthe’s skull.

Taking the copilot seat and checking a few monitors, Harrow does her best to sound put out as she says, “I know you wouldn’t do that, Tridentarius. You’re far too smart to try something that dumb.”

“Oh my God, you’re flattering me. Are you going to kill me? Is that what this is?” Ianthe manages to sound breathless with both arousal and false anxiety at the same time and Harrow has to give her credit: if she hadn’t known the bitch for ninety years, she’d almost believe it.

“Keep it in your pants, Ianthe. You’ve got at least forty minutes until I betray you.”

“Promises, promises, Nonagesimus. If you don’t turn on me within two hours of being on the Ninth then you totally owe me three solid orgasms. It’s been _years_ since you’ve let me get in your pants.”

Harrow just hums a low note and flicks a few switches, turning a few off the auxiliary power sources to the back of the ship since they won’t be needing it for awhile. The time passes quietly, once Ianthe goes back to just talking mostly to herself. (Or maybe she talks to what’s left of Naberius. Harrow wouldn’t put it past her. God knows she’s tried talking aloud to Gideon more than once.)

When the Ninth finally comes into view, Harrow actually has to stop herself from tearing up. It’s not out of a longing to have been here, certainly, but seeing the place that raised her, with its horrible artificial atmo and the thick clouds it creates to trap some modicum of heat on the planet is still doing...something to her.

It might be anger, now that she thinks about it. Anyone from here who deserved her anger is long since dead, but when have her emotions ever been rational? Never, that’s when. Harrow rolls her shoulders, trying to get herself to settle back into her own skin, and spares a glance for Ianthe as she starts the process of navigating the false atmo and docking the shuttle. “Won’t they notice that we’re here without being on the itinerary for today’s shipments?”

“No. Even though the Emperor revived the Ninth, it’s never been as populated as the other Houses. And shipments only come on the first or fifteenth of every month. Today’s the twentieth, so no one will be at the docks.”

Ianthe gives her a look. “They could have changed some things in the last ninety years.”

“Impossible. This is the Ninth. Tradition is everything. And even if I am a lyctor, Ianthe, I’m still the last true Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, the last proper Keeper of the Locked Tomb. I _am_ the Ninth. Even if they don’t know it.”

The sound of the shuttle locking in place reverberates through the cockpit and Harrow stands without preamble, grabbing the extra cloak she had stashed on board the ship before convincing Ianthe to come with her. She tosses the black fabric at the other lyctor and turns, making her way to the doors. “Don’t forget to cover up. This isn’t the Third, standing out is the last thing we want today.”

\--

It was almost too easy getting down here. Even as a child, it seemed like more of a process than it was, yet here she is, standing in front of the Locked Tomb with Ianthe Tridentarius at her elbow, looking horribly unimpressed by the whole thing. That won’t do.

“This is what you grew up worshipping?” she asks, far too loud for Harrow’s sensibilities. Even Gideon felt the need to whisper in front of the Tomb.

Harrow nods, a sharp movement under her hood, then walks forward, pushing the fabric back from her face. There is no need to hide here. She is already well acquainted with the sole inhabitant of the room before her.

Pressing her hand against the seam of the doors, Harrow starts working her way through the different wards and traps, plucking at them like a spider walking on its web, and behind her she can hear Ianthe muttering something crude under her breath. “Harry, did you literally drag me out to the ass end of space just to...to press your head against the Locked Tomb in some weird, creepy ‘hello, it’s been so long’ sort of greeting? Why the fuck are we here?”

She feels a hand enter the space around her body, feels the way it cuts through her thanergetic field with the untrained clumsiness of a child. Ianthe has never been one for the finer arts of necromancy. All the same, the woman’s hand stops before her fingers can make contact with Harrow’s back, voice low and threatening as she asks, “Harrow, _what_ are you doing?”

It’s very little effort for Harrow to look over her shoulder and give Ianthe a withering gaze. “How long have we been on the Ninth, Ianthe?”

Ianthe glares at her as she does the math in her head. “Fifty minutes, Nonagesimus what the fuck are you on right now, why would that matter?”

Harrow turns back towards the door even as she pulls at the bone shards that she scattered around this room over a hundred years ago at the age of ten. “I told you when we were on the ship, Ianthe. You had at least forty minutes until I betrayed you. That was almost two hours ago.”

Ianthe swears behind her as two constructs grab at her, keeping her hands away from any of her weapons so that she can’t cut herself. Even aside from not wanting to deal with her disgusting necromancy, Harrow won’t allow the Tomb to be defiled by anyone’s blood. Certainly not her own, let alone a bitch from the Third. She thinks of the siphoning field from Canaan House, thinks of the way it felt to have to keep herself from being ripped to pieces by the relic of some bygone lyctor who hadn’t even been a lyctor yet. The way her hair had singed and burned, the way her skin had bruised and bled and torn, the way it felt to feel Gideon screaming as she was forced to keep moving forward. And once she has it fully in her mind, she thinks of Palamedes telling her about the fields he could create, thinks of the theory behind the method.

And she casts it around Ianthe.

In her mind she sees the string that holds all the wards on the Tomb together, imagines plucking at it with her nails, and feels the thanergy around her tremble with the reverberation. Sighing with relief, Harrow wraps her hands around that _one_ piece that holds everything else together, sees it as if she’s holding the blade of her rapier, no, the edge of Gideon’s long sword up to that string, and cuts it. The Tomb cracks open with a shudder, doors opening inward in a way they were never meant to, the wall above and around it fracturing with the force, and Ianthe screams with rage.

But Harrow doesn’t care about her anymore. Doesn’t care about the Ninth, the Emperor, her responsibility as a lyctor, none of it. Stepping into the Tomb, she shrugs off the wards set inside the door, snapping their careful weaving with barely a thought. She’s not a child struggling to control her power anymore. She’s Harrowhark fucking Nonagesimus, and she needs whoever the fuck has been haunting her life for longer than even Gideon Nav. 

“Wake _up_!” she shouts, storming towards the sarcophagus. She barely cares about the fact that she’s walking on the water, bone platforms rising up to meet her feet as she goes. The water shivers with every movement, ever repeated shout as Harrow keeps demanding the same thing, over and over again, until she’s leaning over the top of the sarcophagus, cracking the ice and chains instantly.

Gold eyes (not gold in the way that Gideon’s are, not warm and bright and loving, no, these are cold, these are frozen metal, these are unflinching and empty of anything but hate) snap open. Harrow’s breath comes in a heave as she finally starts to feel the weight of everything she’s done, but there’s no time for her to be tired, so she draws on the thanergy of the Ninth, and says, one more time: “You’ve got an emperor to kill. And I’m owed my cavalier.”

\--

In the end, she doesn’t even watch as her God is killed right in front of her. Harrow knows it’s happening, sees it out of the corner of her eye. But she doesn’t pay attention to how Alecto murders the man who kept her in a tomb for over ten thousand years, planned on keeping her locked up for at least ten thousand more.

No, Harrow lets Alecto have a modicum of privacy in that moment, just as Alecto turns around and advances on the Emperor instead of watching as Harrow falls to her knees in front of the preserved, perfect body of Gideon the Ninth.

To think her cavalier had been hiding on the very ship that she’s spent the last ninety years living on. To think she was so gullible as to trust a man who sacrificed an entire planet so that he could keep on living. The only person who’s ever cared about her, ever actually loved her, has been kept on ice and toted around the solar system in a fucking six foot four inch box.

She should care more that he’s been killed ten feet away from where she kneels, that Alecto is now wreaking havoc on the Mithraeum, that Ianthe is probably pulling herself from the rubble of the Ninth by now, angry at being betrayed and livid at being left behind on such a backwater planet. But Harrow can only lean over across the top of the glass coffin her cav was placed in all those decades ago and stroke her hand across Gideon’s cold, beautiful cheek.

As Harrow cups her hands around Gideon’s face, trying to warm her body up by touch alone, she also takes stock of the thanergy of the ship. Normally it’s about as empty as anything in space can be, but now? Now, the Necrolord Prime is dead and filling the room with enough power to make her feel drunk just on the signature of it. Tapping into it is going to be the best power trip in the world, and Harrow’s going to need as much of it as she can harness for what she’s about to do.

(Alecto had explained it so simply that Harrow had almost felt stupid while listening. Gideon Nav, the child of a lyctor, someone who shouldn’t have made it as far into life as she did, especially considering all the times she almost died. Or, as Alecto framed it, _did_ die. What better way to engineer a cavalier for a lyctor than make sure that they can keep going after death? All you need to do is make sure the body remains perfectly intact.)

A cursory check shows Harrow that the wound from the spiked railing of Canaan House has been stitched up for a good long while, will probably heal rather quickly once this is done. All that’s left is to do it.

With more effort than she’d like, Harrow pushes herself up and grabs a knife from her belt, dragging it across the back of her arm, then sets about writing ward runes and spell sigils around Gideon’s coffin with her own blood, remaking the cut more than once so that she can keep going, making a complete circle around her and then pushing just a _bit_ of the thanergy she’s siphoning off from the Emperor into it. She can’t risk using any of Gideon’s soul right now.

Carefully, she strips her cloak off and then rips her shirt down the middle, opening it enough that she can easily write the last sigil over her heart. 

“I pray the tomb is open forever. I pray the rock is never rolled back in place. I that which was buried is never reburied, sentient, in perpetual waking with open eyes and frantic brain. I pray it lives, I pray it always wakes. I pray for the death of the Emperor All-Giving, the Dead King, his Virtues and his men. I pray for the Second House, the Third, the Fourth, the Fifth; the Sixth, the Seventh, and Eighth. I Pray for the Ninth House, and I pray for it to be barren. I pray for the soldiers and the adepts far from home, and all those parts of the Empire that live in peace and quiet. Let it be so.”

As she speaks, voice soft and low, Harrow carefully picks out the spots where she and Gideon are intertwined in their souls, those little ties that bind them so closely together that she has long since stopped noticing where she ends and her cavalier begins. But now, more than ever, more than when she was first forced into this cursed stasis of living and mourning, she picks them out. Carefully, one by one, she gathers them close to herself, as she could wrap them in her hands and press them to her breast, to her heart which has only ever beat for one person out of the two hundred and one souls that reside inside her own. Opening eyes that she didn’t realize she had closed, Harrowhark Nonagesimus stares at the face of Gideon Nav and says, “Wake up, already, why don’t you?”

And severs their souls.

-

The first thing she hears is the sound that comes after someone has finished screaming, but is still feeling too much pain to be silent; that sort of low moaning that hitches every now and then as another breath is forced out of a body that doesn’t want to actually be alive at the moment. 

Feeling comes back slowly, first her legs, then spreading down to her knees and toes, though the heels of her feet are being stubborn for some reason, except...no they’re not, that’s glass underneath her, that’s why it feels cold, because she can feel it with her hands now too, and that’s weird, that’s honestly kind of horrible, is she in a glass _box_ like this is some Third House fairytale, what the fuck, Harrow?

“What the fuck, Harrow?” Her voice comes out in this horrible rasp, and only after speaking does Gideon realize how fucking much her entire body hurts, and her throat is this dry aching mess that makes her long for the cold air of the Ninth. But that horrible sobbing stops as soon as she finishes talking, which is good, maybe. 

It’s been awhile since she’s had to think about whether or not something was good.

Gideon tries to push herself up so that she can sit instead of just lying there in the fucking _glass box_ that she has apparently been in for who knows how long, but as soon as she starts having to use her core muscles her body gives out, throbbing heavily in this horrible way that says “hey, remember when we threw our body onto a fucking spike?! Because if you didn’t, you do now!”

The real icing on the cake, though, even as Gideon gasps for breath and flutters her hands over the stitches in her stomach, is that she still can’t see. Or, she can but her eyes are doing a really shitty job right now and it’d be a lot more useful if they could start working because there’s this scrambling sound coming from her right and then small, warm hands are covering her cheeks, checking her pulse in her neck, pushing her hair back from her face and then Harrow’s low, sweet voice is breaking on an elated sob as she says, “Gideon!”

And slaps her. 

(Wait, what?)

-

It takes about two hours for her eyes to really start working again, which sucks, but at the same time Harrow spent those two hours babying her and had brought her to her room on the Mithraeum (they’re on the Emperor’s ship! Also he’s dead, which is a weird thought, and there was some distant screaming for awhile that then abruptly cut off but Harrow doesn’t seem surprised by any of it, so Gideon’s just been rolling with it), and made her lay down on the massive bed she has.

Even the beds at Canaan House are shit compared to this one.

When she can finally see, though, Gideon immediately tries to sit up again, which goes about as well as it did the first time because stomach wound, but she doesn’t care because Harrow looks like death warmed over, her face covered in bloodsweat and there’s no paint for it to mix with so it just stands out stark and pink over her pale face, making her blood shot eyes look even worse, and her mouth looks like a bruise but not in the good way that Gideon’s comics always talk about, more in a “this person split their lip in three different spots and all of them are still bleeding so their entire mouth is swollen” kind of way.

“Harrow, are you okay? What’s going on?” Gideon reaches her hand out to place on Harrow’s cheek, but she stops her, grabbing Gideon’s hand instead and just holding it as she stares at her with those big black eyes.

(It looks like she might actually be developing a black eye, also.)

Gideon goes to ask again, but Harrow just shakes her head and leans down, draping herself over top Gideon, their hands pressed between their chests, and she whispers, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Let me just...let me just have this, for a moment, Gideon. Please.”

And there’s nothing that Gideon can do, not when Harrow’s asking, so she wraps her free arm around Harrow and rolls them onto their sides, ignoring the way her entire body aches with every breath, and she says. “Well, you did say please.”

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and Gideon guesses that she’s been asleep for at least a few decades, but hell, what’s a couple hours more?

\--

Harrow is staring down at the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. Sure, Alecto is captivating and held her attention for most of her childhood, and Ianthe was beautiful in her own sharp, dangerous way, but _Gideon_...nothing will ever compare to Gideon Nav, cavalier primary.

And nothing will compare to the way that Gideon is squirming with embarrassment at being watched like this. “Are you...gonna do something? Or is this stare-at-Gideon time?” she asks, carefully not meeting Harrow’s eyes, and she can just barely pick out the deeping of color in her cheeks that means that Gideon’s blushing.

God, but she’s in love with this idiot. Physically Gideon’s still older than her because Harrow didn’t age as a lyctor, didn’t change, but she did live for ninety more years than Gideon did, has decades more experience than her cav and that means that the woman she’s straddling right now is a blushing virgin.

It’s a bit of a power trip.

She leans down so that their faces are only a few inches apart and breathes in the breath that Gideon exhales. “I’m going to do a lot of things, Gideon. Just trust that I’ve got you, okay?

That gets her a nervous laugh as Gideon pushes herself up onto her elbows and says, “This a new one flesh, one end scenario, Harrow?”

Harrow grins and puts two of her fingers under Gideon’s chin to tilt it up so that she can press a kiss to her lips. “Sort of. But this time the end’s going to be a lot better.”

Gideon gives her this dumb, happy smile when she pulls back and Harrow would be loath to not return it, so she does, just a quick flash of happiness on her own face as she sets about stripping Gideon and herself of clothes. It’s a quick process now that Gideon’s had enough time to rest, now that she isn’t bruised everywhere from having been effectively dead for nine decades, because it means that Harrow doesn’t have to work by herself to get her cavalier’s clothes off, and she doesn’t even bother with trying to be anything but fast with her own stripping down.

Still, Gideon lets out this little gasp when Harrow settles back on top of her, hands immediately covering up the sharp lines of her hip bones, and her skin is burning hot in comparison to the chill of the room around them. Slowly, to give Gideon time to turn away if she decides she wants to, Harrow leans down, putting her hands on either side of Gideon’s head on the pillows for balance, and presses a kiss to her forehead, then to her nose, making her way down Gideon’s face until she reaches her lips and seals them together. She gets a soft moan for her trouble, sighs as she feels Gideon’s grip tighten on her hips and the careful way that she’s mimicking the way Harrow moves their lips together, slow and a bit clumsy in her responses.

The slide of their lips together is driving her insane in the best way, the way they fit against each other, the way that Gideon keeps trying to keep her in place when all Harrow is doing is finding a different angle. Eventually, their hands move to each other’s hair, Gideon’s tangling in the curls that hang just a bit lower down Harrow’s neck than they did at Canaan House, and Harrow weaves her fingers into the soft, shocking ginger of Gideon’s hair and tugs at it while she curves her other hand around the back of Gideon’s neck, pressing her fingers into the skin to remind Gideon that she belongs to her.

It feels like they spend hours kissing, especially once Gideon figures out how to not use too much tongue, but eventually Harrow makes her way down from Gideon’s mouth to her neck, sucking and biting here and there to figure out what she likes, what she doesn’t like, how easy it is to bruise her skin (it’s not, easy that is, but Gideon makes this amazing little sound when she teases at the hollow of her throat with her tongue, nipping at the tendons of her neck, and Harrow could spend _years_ doing this.)

She’s not even disappointed when Gideon doesn’t really react beyond a soft sigh to having first one, then both nipples twisted or bit, just presses a soft kiss to each breast before moving further down Gideon’s body. When she blows cold air against Gideon’s stomach, a few inches from the still healing wound, Harrow has to dodge out of the way of Gideon’s leg jack knifing up into the air, her breath swallowed up in the nervous laughter of someone who’s never realised they’re ticklish before. The look that passes between them is one of fearful anticipation from Gideon and unadulterated joy from Harrow, and then Gideon’s trying to scramble backwards away from Harrow as she presses her lips against Gideon’s stomach and blows a raspberry, laughing at the shriek it elicits.

Gideon nearly kicks her three more times and _does_ elbow her in the stomach on accident once as Harrow does her best to make Gideon laugh more, hoping for that elated shriek she got the first time. When Gideon finally pulls her in for a kiss, both of them laughing and smiling too hard for it to be anything more than their mouths pressing together, they’re panting and a bit sweaty from the exertion of it all. Gideon’s half leaning against the wall that Harrow’s bed is pressed up against and Harrow is laying on top of her, nestled between her legs, as they lose themselves to kissing each other again, slow and luxurious.

“You’re such a menace,” Gideon whispers to her, pressing a kiss against a different part of her face with each word. “I love you so much.”

Harrow buries her face in Gideon’s neck so she won’t be able to see her blush. “I haven’t even done anything yet, Nav. Save the sappy confessions for after I blow your mind.”

“No can do, my dark mistress. I’ve loved you for at least one hundred years.”

“You’ve been dead since you were twenty, Nav. You can’t have loved me for one hundred years.”

A hand on Harrow’s chin gets her to look up at Gideon even as she moves down her body. “I loved you for every second that my soul lived inside you, and I loved you for every moment that you existed in my life. You’re _mine_ , Nonagesimus. Who else would be foolish enough to have loved you during your terrible twos?”

It takes every bit of will power Harrow has to not start crying with happiness and a bit of indignation as she bites out, “I can’t believe you’re bringing up my behavior as a toddler when I’m trying to go down on you.”

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t. So many biting jokes that can be made, Harrow. So. Many. Jokes.”

Harrow presses her face into the space between Gideon’s breasts, face burning now from so many different emotions that she can’t even pick one out. Well, she can pick one out, but it’s so horribly sappy that she doesn’t even want to think about it. Instead she huffs an exasperated breath against Gideon’s skin, getting another laugh out of her cav, and then she moves the rest of the way down, settling Gideon’s legs on her shoulders once she gets to her cunt, and giving Gideon a _look_ over her pubic mound, sparing a quick glance at the bright orange curls covering it and then raising one eyebrow at Gideon as she looks back up. The blush she sees spreading across Gideon’s cheeks is outrageous.

“How is it a brighter orange than your h-”

“Harrow, please just shut up and put me out of my misery!”

She smirks at her, then turns her attention back to her self assigned job (plan title: _Blow Gideon Nav’s Mind So That No One Else Will Ever Be Good Enough_ ). She can see the just barely there hints of wetness on the lips and opening of Gideon’s cunt, can see the tiny head of her clit peeking out from its hood and it makes her mouth water, but this is Gideon’s first time. Harrow refuses to just rush in with no warning, no warm up, so instead she turns her head and presses a soft kiss to one of Gideon’s muscled thighs, working her way up and down the warm skin with gentle caresses, massaging her legs with care and sparing a glance for the wreck she’s making every now and then.

Gideon’s hands and fluttering about, grabbing at the sheets on minute and then her pillows the next, like she doesn’t know what to do with them, so Harrow takes pity and reaches up, tangling her left hand with one of Gideon’s right, and then leading her other hand down to rest on Harrow’s head. “You can pull on my hair, if you want. It’s nice,” she tells her, pressing a kiss, and then a soft bite, to the thin skin of her inner wrist before putting her hand back on her head. She gets a shaky, low sigh for her troubles, so Harrow leans down then and bites at the spot where Gideon’s inner thigh meets her crotch, and that gets her a muffled shout.

Harrow ghosts her right hand across the skin of Gideon’s thighs, across her lower stomach, enough to tease but not tickle her, feels the way the muscles of her thighs twitch and shudder against her shoulders and head, and one particular touch, as she trails her nails first across Gideon’s lower stomach, then further down until she can grab onto the ginger curls of her pubic hair and _tug_ , has Gideon’s thighs squeezing suddenly around her head, hand pulling at Harrow’s hair in an almost panicked motion. It’s thrilling and gone far too soon, but when Harrow tries to look up, Gideon’s hand pushes her back as she whispers, “Harrow, please, come on, just fucking touch me already!”

Like she needs to be quiet about it. Dumb, lovely, Gideon.

But Harrow knows that she’d be half insane if she were in Gideon’s place right now, so Harrow moves her hand from Gideon’s mound to her lips, spreading them and grinning at the sight of how wet she is. Leaning in fully, she presses a kiss to the hood of Gideon’s clit, hears her gasp more at the sudden touch than the actual feeling of it, and then moves her tongue across the entirety of Gideon’s cunt in one broad, fast stroke that leaves Gideon’s hand tightening almost painfully in Harrow’s hair.

She stops actively paying attention to anything else after that, focusing instead on how the muscles of Gideon’s legs twitch and shiver when she presses first one, then two fingers inside of her, rubbing the pads of her fingertips across those slick inner walls, pulling them out just to see how wet they’ve become from being inside Gideon (and maybe she’s got a thing for seeing how much she can break her partners down, but at the same time something about this is different, is better, because it’s Gideon that she’s doing this to).

Harrow’s still got the muscle memory of how Gideon would get herself off, though, still knows how Gideon’s body moves when she fights, the way she runs, how to throw a punch, so she knows that her cav likes to have her the inside of her cunt rubbed, likes to circle and press at that one spot as she plays with her clit. Harrow knows how good it feels because she did it to herself more times than she can count over the decades, but she’s been waiting for so long to do it to Gideon and now she can.

So she does.

The sound that Gideon makes when she starts rubbing her fingers against her g-spot while also sucking on her clit nearly makes Harrow lose it. The feeling of both of her cav’s hands slipping into her hair and pulling at it, the way she ends of grasping the side of one of Gideon’s thighs to keep her face from being crushed and she slips her tongue in beside her fingers, all of it. She’s not sure how much of the wetness around her fingers is just from Gideon now and how much of it is her own spit from licking into her, curling her tongue inside her only to move back up to her clit to lave and suck at it, pushing the hood back with her tongue just to tease at the most sensitive spot of it. 

But it takes until Harrow actually brushes her thumb up against Gideon’s clit, rubbing it in a quick, hard circle, for Gideon to finally come, clenching around around her fingers and digger the heels of her feet into Harrow’s shoulder blades. Harrow fucks her through it, helps her ride out the aftershocks, fingering her until Gideon forcibly pushes her away, and then Harrow has to kneel over Gideon, balancing with one hand on her cavalier’s hip as she quickly brings herself off with fingers she’d been fucking Gideon with, gasping out a moan when she registers the hungry way that she’s being watched, and then she’s collapsing onto Gideon with a shout, body trembling as she comes.

Harrow notices, after maybe ten minutes of them just laying together like that, that they’re rapidly becoming sticky from cooling sweat and cum, but she doesn’t think that her arms could hold the weight of her body to get into a sitting position, let alone stand on her legs to walk to the bathroom. So she just forces herself to roll off of Gideon, curling up against her side instead. Gideon throws an arm around her once she’s settled, and it’s disgusting, just existing in the massive wet spot they’ve created with their sweat, but at the same time Harrow has never been happier.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So...you do that very often, when I was dead? Or did you just figure out the theory behind it and then never stop thinking about it?” Gideon gives her a grin that lets Harrow know she doesn’t actually mind either answer.

Still, it’s harder than she thought to say, “Often enough that I became very good at it. And had some very high standards to live up to in terms of other people’s past partners.”

“Oh? Tell me more, my penumbral lady.”

“...”

“Harrow, who ever it was that you had a lot of sex with, it can’t have been that bad?”

“It was Ianthe.”

The silence that follows is enough to make Harrow grimace, shoulders tensing automatically.

“You...fucked Ianthe Tridentarius?” Gideon’s voice is incredulous, and she’s already laughing by the time she gets to Ianthe’s House name.

Harrow swats at Gideon, but mutters out, “Yes, I fucked Ianthe Tridentarius, and yes, that meant I had to live up to the standards of Naberius Tern, please do not make me think about it, Gideon!”

But it’s too late, because Gideon’s howling with laughter, pulling Harrow tight against her in a delighted hug, and she can’t even be mad about the whole thing because it’s so good to see Gideon like this, to see her happy, and Harrow would do anything to keep that smile on her face.

She’s nearly fallen asleep by the time that Gideon finally stops giggling to herself, and has to rub at her eyes when Gideon says, “Hey, question.”

“What?” she croaks out.

“You remember that thing you did when Palamedes had you make a key out of bone? How you shaped it and everything?”

“Yes, I remember. What about it, Gideon?”

“Do you think you could make a dildo out of bone? Because that way it’d be...a bone-rection? Get it? A boner?!”

Harrow grabs one of the pillows from behind her head and hits Gideon in the face with it as hard as she can, repeating the motion again and again and again until the pillow gets knocked away and Gideon pulls her down into a kiss that’s half Harrow muttering threats and half Gideon being too busy laughing to actually kiss her.

And Harrow wouldn’t have it any other way.

\--

There were once many accepted truths of the Ninth House.

Now, there is only one: Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Gideon Nav are in love, and they would, and have, destroyed the world for each other.

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it all the way through, thank you so much! kudos and comments keep me going and assure me that people do appreciate the amount of time and effort that i, and other writers, put into fics, so if you want me be sure to hit that little button down below! if you saw any glaring typos or grammar/formatting mistakes, please let me know so i can fix them!
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed this, and hopefully i'll write some stuff for this fandom that isn't centered around making harrow hurt! but that's a goal for a different day!


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